Truth Hurts
by wired4romance
Summary: This is a follow-on story to "The Return." It is my continued imagining of how our Season 2 will commence.


_This is a follow-on story to 'The Return,' so you may want to read them in order._

**Truth Hurts**

Catherine was completely aware of how late it was getting to be, but couldn't make herself care. Vincent had started to stir long, languorous moments earlier and his touches were making her body sing. Morning could wait a little while longer. Sadly, that thought coincided with the clock flipping over the hour and an odd refrain of Metric's "Breathing Underwater" suddenly blared through the stillness of the room, jarring them both from their loving reverie. "I'm the blade; you're the knife." She blindly reached out an arm to the nightstand and slammed it off.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, starting to sit up despite every nerve in her body screaming against it.

Vincent twisted his head to the clock and saw the time. "No, it's okay," he said, his deep voice rougher than normal, but surprisingly pleasant. "I surprised you last night."

"In more ways than one," she grinned shyly at him then took a deep breath. "Unfortunately, . . . I can't possibly call in today. I texted Tess last night that I might need a few extra hours this morning, but," she looked over at the time and sighed again, "I think my time's just about up." Despite her resolve, she slid down again into the warm cocoon of his arms. "The last thing I want to do right now is leave this bed. I want to hear everything – how you got away, what's been happening since, but . . . I have this new boss—"

When Vincent frowned at that, she added, "—long story. "

"We both have a lot to catch up on in each other's lives." He ran a hand gently through her silky hair and the bangs she'd cut at some point in the last month. He kinda liked them.

"Yes, we do. Will you . . . be here when I get back?" Catherine tried to keep the hopeful note from her voice, but knew she'd failed miserably. "Heather isn't currently living here, so—"

"I guess we both have a lot to share. Uh, no, actually. I've also got to get back."

"To JT? I can't wait to hear what he had to say when you showed up out of the blue," she said, getting out of bed and walking toward the bathroom door.

Vincent's eyes followed the line of her sexy legs and momentarily forgot what he was about to say until she rounded the corner. "Actually, I came to see you first." That was a dodge of immense proportions, but hopefully it sounded close to the truth. "But I'll come back tonight. Maybe we can make it through dinner and a little conversation before getting too distracted again." That was rather doubtful, but they could always try.

"Wishful thinking, Mr. Keller." Catherine flashed a quick grin at him around the door before disappearing briefly again. He could hear water running.

"Oh, I don't know about that," he said. "You go. Do what you have to do. I can clean up around here."

"You sure?" She peeked at him again then eyed the messy bedclothes dubiously.

"Absolutely."

"Okay then." She shrugged. "You don't have to leave right away, you know. There's food in the frig—" Wait. Had she remembered to pick up that quart of milk? "Take your time. There's no hurry."

The apartment was quiet when she turned off the shower five short minutes later, and for a moment she thought he'd left. She dressed quickly, dabbed on the barest of makeup then pulled her hair back into a knot before stepping back into the bedroom where he sat curled up in an easy chair by the window, coffee cup in hand and a newspaper (one he must have picked up outside the door) opened on his lap.

She grinned. What a wonderful, wonderful sight he made. She could hardly believe he was back. She frowned. So many questions, and absolutely no time! He offered her an identical steaming mug but she shook her head. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, really." He got up and helped her on with her jacket, then turned her to him. "I'm not going to disappear again. I promise."

She studied his eyes a moment, so beautiful and dark. And full of mystery this time. Then she kissed him lightly on the lips and wished with all her heart she could linger. Impossible. "You'd better not. Bye."

"Bye."

Vincent watched the apartment door click shut and let out a long sigh. This wasn't going to be easy. There was so much to say, but both of them had been so focused on the other that talking had become impossible. Breathing had been difficult enough. He could feel heat building up in his veins again just at the thought. He rubbed his face and willed himself to calm down. He couldn't afford her learning the truth another way. It would have to come from him, and tonight. He'd have to do whatever it took to keep them away from the bedroom.

It wasn't until he was certain she'd left the building that he got up and walked back into the bedroom to make the bed—and saw the tears in the fabric. Two distinct sets of jagged rip marks cut through the sheets where his hands must have clawed for purchase on either side of her during the night, some deep enough to have slashed into the mattress below. Shame filled him.

The room was dark, so it was possible she hadn't noticed, but that was ridiculous. Of course she had. What had she thought of him? As he tried to press the fabric flat again, he examined the sheets more closely. Tiny threads of red were spattered here and there. "Oh, no." It was a multi-colored sheet set, but he could smell the faint coppery odor and knew it was blood. Catherine's. The stains were faint, so it was possible they could have been from the day before where she'd nicked herself shaving. He turned around and sat down heavily on the edge of the counter pane. Who was he kidding? He'd watched her get out of bed and had seen no marks on her skin then, but he had to have hurt her. The red haze he'd been in most of the night must have dulled his other senses or else he would have picked up on it sooner. How could he have done that to her?

He knew how, of course. The continued regimen of pills and injections they'd subjected him to in the past three months had fractionally altered his DNA until he was more beast than man now. Catherine could not have _not_ noticed the subtle changes in his body. Maybe the smile she'd put on was for show. After all, who'd want to upset a guy who could rip you to shreds with his bare hands? He hadn't smelled any fear, though.

He tipped back his head and rolled his shoulders. What was, was. There was no going back. Either Catherine accepted him again, all of him, or this was the end of a beautiful dream. At least he'd have his memories—unless Muirfield eventually found a way to suppress those, too. Hands at his side, he pushed off the bed and went about setting things right. It was past time to report in.

"This is your target, Simon Guilliaume."

"Who is he?" Cameryn Teague spoke without looking away from the face on the screen.

"International Yemni operative in country under a false name. He's here for an arms deal, but not just any arms—he wants biological weapons."

"And he thinks he can get them from someone here in New York?"

"Indirectly. This is a first step. He's meeting this man – Demitrius Volostov, an aide to the Russian ambassador." Another image flashed up on the screen. "Volostov thinks his cover is air-tight, but we've been watching him for some time. He's a hatchet man for the Old Guard. The man's ruthlessness knows no bounds. He'd sell his Mother's first-born for the right price."

"He must be a middle child," Cameryn murmured sotto voice to Vincent and grinned.

Hatchet men with no moral compass apparently didn't bother her, he thought to himself, studying Cameryn more than the computer display. She still had that cocky grin.

Reynolds droned on. "Volostov will attempt to provide Guilliaume with a contact in exchange for information—Volostov is after a spook they lost track of last December in Yemen. He can't afford for that man to be compromised and thinks Guilliaume can help locate him. I don't need to tell you—neither man must get what he came for. In fact, it would be better, for us, if Guilliaume quietly disappeared. Cameryn, you'll be point on this one. Make contact with Guilliaume, find out where the meet will be. Vincent, you'll come in and take him out when she gives the signal."

"What about Volostov? We're just going to let him get away? He's just going to keep trying." Cameryn asked the question of Reynolds, but shot a look at Vincent.

"He isn't to be touched. Too visible. Mr. Volostov is well watched, believe me. Leave him to us."

"Point, already. Wow," he murmured as they left the over-bright office.

"I don't know what he's thinking, Keller. I didn't ask for it."

"He sees potential in you. Don't worry. You'll do fine."

"Yes, I will." She stopped walking and grinned over at him. With her heels, their faces were nearly on the same level. Just how she liked it.

"What?"

"You're not . . . typical, are you?"

"What's that supposed to mean? Neither one of us is any kind of definition of 'typical.'"

"I mean, guys have big egos. They don't like handing things over to a newbie, much less a woman."

"You don't know anything about me. I guess I just don't have a strong opinion of how this should be done. I'm good with whatever you plan. And I've known capable women before."

"I bet you have."

Vincent looked away. There was a very capable woman waiting for him tonight. He'd just like to get this over and done with—he didn't care how. They made their plans. It all seemed good. After they suited up and adequately armed themselves, they headed out.

Things didn't quite go as planned. Volostov brought a few henchmen to the party. Cameryn did a good job of distracting them all, but there was quite a mess to clean up when they were done, and more than one dead body—Volostov's among them. Reynolds wasn't pleased. By the time he disgustedly dismissed them, Vincent didn't have time to do anything but hurry over to Catherine's and pray she would forgive him for missing dinner. Again.

"I didn't expect you to come to the _door_." She quickly looked down the hall to check if anyone else might have seen him. It was empty. "Come in. Hurry."

"Catherine, I'm so sorry. I got hung up. I didn't mean to be late."

"It's okay. You're here now. Are you still hungry? I just put the food away but it would only take a few minutes to heat it back up again."

"No, I'm good."

"Okay."

She looked away and he knew she was feeling unworthy in some way. He understood that feeling only too well. He looked into the apartment, wondering if she was going to invite him in further or make him stand there the rest of the night.

As if realizing her mistake at the same time, she waved toward the living room. "Come on in. Sit down. You look tired."

She ran a hand over his cheek and he felt that intimate connection he always did when she touched him like that. He guessed he could stand there all night breathing in her soft scent and it wouldn't bother him too much. If only he could. Better get the hard part over first. He let himself linger a moment longer, afraid it would be the last time she looked at him that way, then he took her hand in his and pulled her down with him onto the soft cushions of the sofa.

**Chapter 2**

The lamp lit Vincent's face from a different angle and that was when she noticed the slight bruising along his jaw.

"Oh, my God. Did you get in a fight? What happened?"

He grabbed her hand before she could touch him further. He needed to maintain a little bit of space tonight. "It's nothing."

Catherine eyed him curiously. "Well, it's not _nothing_, but I gather it has something to do with what you're going to tell me."

"Yeah, kinda." He looked everywhere but at her.

His nervous movements gave him away. "Vincent. Don't you know by now that you can trust me? Whatever it is, whatever you've been through, we'll face it together. Just . . . why don't you start at the beginning?"

He looked up, then set his jaw. "Okay." He swallowed hard. "When Muirfield grabbed me, they took me to what looked like an abandoned farm house. At first, I wasn't certain it was them because this place wasn't the normal pristine, hi-tech laboratory they usually use, you know? The guy in charge, he had only a skeleton crew, too, so it wasn't their usual modus operandi. I don't think they'd planned to grab me at all."

"You think Gabe was the target?"

"Yes. I don't know, I guess after seeing me at the mansion they realized who I was and decided they could only grab one of us, so they shot Gabe and threw their net over me."

"That net, you couldn't tear it."

"No, they'd definitely had capture in mind. It was made of some kind of material I couldn't rip through. They knew exactly what they were doing."

Catherine's lips thinned to a tight line. Gabe had actually survived, but they would get to that part of the story later. "So it _was_ Muirfield. And they continued their experiments."

It wasn't a question. "Yes. They continued their experiments."

"Vincent, if I had known they were coming—"

"Catherine, you couldn't have known."

"But I made the choice to give you that vaccine. If I hadn't, Muirfield would never have seen you like that, and maybe—"

"You did what you did to save my life."

He looked away when he said it, and Catherine realized for the first time that that's the story he'd probably been telling himself, but he wasn't sure of her motivations. She got up from the couch and paced to the window. "You don't know how many nights I cried myself to sleep knowing the last memory you'd have of me was that." When she turned, her eyes were filled with tears. "Our future was an unknown, but I couldn't live without you in it."

Vincent breathed in and out slowly, calming himself. The Muirfield doctors had questioned him long and hard about the physical changes he was undergoing. His body was in overdrive when they caught him, still fighting the effects of the rapid modification of the cure followed by the vaccine that cancelled it. They'd planted a lot of questions in his mind—questions he thought he knew the answer to. But over time, he wasn't sure what was certain anymore.

The tears in her eyes were all he needed to know the truth. She'd thought it was his only chance, and Catherine did what Catherine always did—made the difficult choice. He only hoped she didn't live to regret it. Seeing her tears almost had him on his feet, but as much as he wanted to comfort her, he didn't quite trust himself.

"And I'm okay. First thing they did was stabilize me. The doctor treating me wasn't interested in figuring out what made me tick, only of helping me cope. Over time, he and I actually became friends."

Catherine frowned deeply but let him continue.

"In fact—" He regrouped. He'd rehearsed this in his mind a dozen times, but it still didn't feel right. He knew he was mucking it up. "Okay, I don't know how to tell you this except to just say it: Muirfield has changed. It isn't the same organization it was."

"Changed . . . _how_?"

"Under new management. Well, old management actually. With a new agenda. After we destroyed their server complex and the agent who killed Evan failed, a major overhaul occurred. Catherine, I came to your front door because they are no longer hunting me. I didn't escape. They let me go. And now I'm working with them."

The silence in the room was palpable.

"But they captured you and did more experiments on you."

He nodded. "To help me."

"_Really?_ This is the organization you've been hiding from for _ten years_. They killed your service buddies, Ray. They killed Evan. Vincent, Muirfield _murdered my mother_!" She heard herself yelling and made a visible effort to calm down. "Now they're your friends? Don't you think there's the tiniest chance that they're manipulating you? Maybe they drugged you and used some sort of subliminal suggestions—"

"No."

"And so you just thought, why not join up? The benefit package was better than you were getting before?"

"Look. I know how it sounds, but it's not like that. I'm still technically dead, okay? I still have to fly under the radar—I just don't have to watch over my shoulder every moment of every day."

"We'll find a way to fix this."

"That's what I'm saying. There's nothing to fix."

"And you're just going to overlook what they've done . . . to you? To others? To my mom?"

"Catherine, I know this doesn't make any sense."

"That's the first thing you've said that does. What doesn't make any sense is that the man I love now works for the organization that killed his friends, my co-worker, and my mother!"

"Try to see this from my perspective. I can never have a normal life. _Never_. At least this way I have some modicum of freedom. I can be useful—"

"_Useful?"_ She shook her head and backed away. Vincent started to get up but she held up a hand. "I'm sorry, but . . . I don't know who you are anymore." She turned away from him with a hand on her mouth.

His mesmerizing voice cut to her heart. "I'm the same guy you made love to last night. _Catherine_. I'm the guy who thought of nothing but you for the last three months. Wanting to hold you again was the only thought keeping me from going insane."

"Exactly. Because of what they'd done to you. And _this_ is how you repay that—you go to work for them? What, so you're on the payroll now? Just how much does a hired killer make these days?"

Her words were like knives and he could feel himself start to transform. He ruthlessly beat it back.

She went to the coat tree and pulled off her jacket, stabbing her arms down the thin leather sleeves.

"What—where are you going?"

"I think I need some air."

Before she got to the door he was at her back, a hand curled around her middle. He felt her suck in her breath. "Catherine, please don't go. I'm sorry. I . . . I haven't explained this right. You know I'm not good with words. Just –" Even as he felt the splash of tears on his knuckles where his hand cradled her, she froze. Remembering what his hands had done to her, he withdrew them. Everything was falling apart.

"Catherine—"

"I can't do this right now."

The moment she grabbed the door handle, the bell rang.

Vincent's eyes shot to hers.

"_Tess?"_ she mouthed.

He started to shrug, then bolted for the door as recognition flooded him. _Too late_. Catherine jerked it open.

"Oh, Gawd. My bad. Did I interrupt something?"

Catherine looked up through her tears into curious, bright blue eyes.

Vincent shoved himself bodily in between her and the tall, blue-eyed woman, blocking her view of the stranger. "What are you doing here, Teague?"

"Sorry. I'd followed you to this apartment before. I thought it was your pad. I didn't realize you had company."

"Well, now you know."

The comment was meant to be a threat, but Cameryn ignored it, leaned around him and offered her hand to the petite brunette with a friendly smile. "Hi, I'm Cameryn Teague, Keller's partner. And you are?"

**Chapter 3**

Vincent physically shoved Cameryn out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind him before Catherine could reply.

Once they were alone, he saw his new partner's overbright eyes and his tone softened. "What is it? What's happened?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt anything. Really. I just . . . I know I really screwed up today and I needed to talk to somebody. I wanted to say I'm sorry. You covered my ass with Reynolds, but I'm afraid to go back, you know? I don't think he bought our explanation."

"Listen, no one is going to hurt you. But I can't do this right now. You need to get out of here."

Her eyes registered the iron will behind his words. _Get lost_ is what he was saying. She knew when she wasn't wanted. Cameryn's shoulders slumped and she turned to go, then she swiveled back toward him. "She's lovely, Keller. Beautiful. I can see why you keep her a secret. She knows? All about you?"

"Yes."

"And she doesn't care?"

He could see in her eyes the questions she wasn't asking. The silence behind the door was screaming at him. He needed to get back inside. "Teague . . . _please_."

She nodded. "Okay. I'm gone. I hope I didn't . . . muck things up for you, too."

He held the doorknob in a tight fist until she disappeared around the corner. She'd come for comfort, but she had terrible timing. It wasn't in him to be callous like that, but he was already in a heap of trouble. He took a beat before twisting the knob back open and turning to face the music.

Catherine was nowhere to be found.

"Catherine?"

She came out of the bedroom with her jacket on, all business. "I'm going out."

A rush of frustration came out nearly as a growl. "_Catherine_."

She held up a hand. "I need some time to process all of this."

"This is why it took me so long to make contact," he murmured under his breath.

"What did you say?"

"I knew you wouldn't understand!"

She squinted at him. "Just _how long_," her voice had gone deadly quiet, "have you been free and running around New York?"

Vincent felt his face turn red. "A couple of weeks, okay—"

"You're telling me that you've been free _for weeks_ but only just came to tell me you were alive?"

"It isn't like that, Catherine. Let me explain."

"You know—what is there to explain? I mean, it's not like there is any . . . 'agreement' between us."

"Catherine, don't."

"Now you just work for the butchers we've been hiding from for all this time. Sounds perfectly logical to me. I don't know why I didn't think to just look them up in the phone book and call to see if you were well instead of _freaking out_—"

"There's a new guy in charge, remember? He has a different plan. He never wanted what happened."

"You don't have any idea what I went through knowing they had you. I was terrified! If they killed you, Vincent—" She couldn't breathe and shook her head. "Never mind."

"Okay, but—"

"So who is she?"

So they were back to Teague. He shrugged. "She's one of us."

" 'Us'?"

"Like _me_." He lifted his eyes to hers to see what kind of reaction that got. Nothing he could easily discern. He took another breath. "In terms of my work for Muirfield, she's my partner, okay? We are a team."

"Uh-huh."

"What does that even mean?"

She held his gaze for one long moment. "It means absolutely nothing, apparently. You show up here, tell me you've been set free by the organization that's been hunting you for years, but now you work for your enemy, and then this . . . this woman shows up—"

"That woman has a name. Try to have some compassion here, Catherine. Cameryn didn't have a choice in this, either, you know."

"Compassion? You're telling me to have _compassion_?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

"It's what you said."

How quickly the tables had turned.

"I'll be back later." Her eyes only flickered to his for the briefest of moments. "Maybe you should find a different place to stay tonight."

Vincent stood in the entryway staring at the closed door for five long minutes after she left. Well, that certainly went well. Anger bubbled up and he made no attempt to control it. He slammed a fist against the door jam then swept everything off the entryway table onto the floor.

Only after he calmed down did he see what he'd done—carved a streak of rough grooves into the shiny mahogany surface. Immediately contrite, Vincent swore and tried to rub away the splinters, then he picked up the knick-knacks that hadn't broken and tried arranging them over the damaged area to hide it. Who was he kidding? He couldn't erase the marks of his beast any better there than in the bedroom.

Finally, he found paper and pen and scrawled a note of apology: _"I will replace this. Please don't fear me. I would NEVER, EVER hurt you. – V."_ If only her ability to hurt him was so easy to turn off. Disgusted with himself, he shoved his hat on his head and headed out. He should have gone to JT first. Now he needed his best buddy more than ever.

"_Vincent is back?!_ Oh, thank God! I'm so happy for you—I truly am." Tess started to embrace Cat then saw her face. "But . . . you're not smiling. Why are you not smiling? Is he in bad shape? What did they do to him?"

"No, he's fine. He's . . . they did subject him to more experiments, yes, and he's . . . different in some subtle ways—perhaps more than I realize—but he's still basically himself."

"Then what's the problem? He hook up with a Muirfield babe and give you the 'Dear John' speech or what? _Wow_. I was just joking."

"It's worse than that, actually."

"What could be worse than the guy you are madly in love with turning his head another way?"

Personal experience talking, Catherine realized. "Lying? Withholding information? I don't know, Tess. How could he do this to me? I feel like I just want to punch him."

"Ouch. Aside from being extremely ineffective, that doesn't sound like the best way to get back into his _heart_."

Catherine grimaced. "Maybe not the most practical idea, but it would be immensely satisfying. Of course, it's like he's made of some kind of titanium alloy these days. I'd no doubt break my arm on his face." She wearily dropped down onto the couch in Tess's living room. "Help me, Tess. It feels like I'm coming unraveled."

"And you were just getting your groove back."

"I know, right? And now everything has changed."

"_Everything_?" Tess gave her a grin full of meaning. "You came in late yesterday, all full of smiles. That was because of Vincent, wasn't it?"

Catherine blushed. "Okay not everything, but even that, a little."

"TMI."

"Right." She looked down at her hands. "I just feel like I can't trust him right now."

"Okay. Well, trust can be earned. Give Vincent a chance. Talk to him. You've done nothing for three months but try to find him, and now he's back. Cat, Vincent loves you. I mean, I gather. Maybe the skin on his skull isn't so thick. Keep pounding on it. You'll get through. But I kind of understand where he's coming from."

"_Really_? You're going to take his side? Right now?"

"What? I've always been on your side, remember? I'm just trying to get you to see the bigger picture here."

"Yeah, the bigger picture is that suddenly Muirfield isn't a threat, it's his employer, and oh, there's another tall, gorgeous supermodel-soldier out there and she's living and breathing right under his nose. How do I even compute all that?"

"Did he say or do anything to give you reason to think he has feelings for this amazon?"

"Her name's Cameryn. And he didn't have to."

"Yeah, because I'm thinking he didn't. You're just assuming that's the case. See, this is just like you. You're back to not believing in yourself again. He may be a lug nut—"

"Hey!"

"Your term, not mine."

"He's _my _lug nut."

"You see? There it is. That's right, he is. Honestly, I'm not exactly a Vincent fan-girl, but I'm sure he isn't interested in that she-robot. But—and I can't believe I'm saying this—maybe he feels some sort of responsibility for her if they've done to her what they did to him. That's all. The guy's not stupid. He came back to you because he's obviously crazy about you."

"So you think I'm being ridiculous?"

"No. Okay, maybe. A little. I just think you need to give Vincent some slack here. He's been a hunted man for ten years, now everything has changed. He's probably still learning to navigate his way through these new circumstances."

"With a lot of help from Miss Guns and Roses."

"See, that's where you're not getting it. She's got nothing on you. Okay, maybe a few inches without heels—"

"And a steel right arm."

"But that's it. She's probably as lost as Vincent was before you met him."

That gave Catherine pause. "You think? They have so much in common. And they would be good together. So strong."

"Yeah, like army-strong, not like a man and a woman in love strong. Cat, he doesn't have eyes for her. Even I can figure that out. And it sounds to me like Vincent was at least _trying _to tell you the truth."

Tears welled up in Catherine's eyes but she swiped them away. "Tess, I just wish we could go back to the way things were, before . . . "

"Hey, I hear you. I get that. You can't—at least, I don't think so. But believe me, there are times I feel the exact same way."

"Joe?"

"Yeah. And you and me, before all this started."

Catherine smiled sadly. "We were quite a team, weren't we?"

"What's this 'were' business? We're still a team. And because of that, I'm going to do whatever it takes to keep you on track. I got your back."

"And I've got yours. Thanks, Tess."

"You're welcome. And now that we have that all straightened out, I need your help with the mad scientist."

"JT?"

"Whatever. Yes. Him. Mr. I'm-Too-Brilliant-For-My-Shirt Forbes."

Cat laughed for the first time all evening. "What kind of help do you need?"

"I want him to start carrying something other than rubber bands, pencils and IEDs. When we're in the field, I'd like to think he's got my back, you know? Even though the chances are pretty slim he'd ever come through in an actual emergency. You can't get out of every scrape with a cell phone and a thumb drive."

Catherine chuckled. She needed this. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks."

**Chapter 4**

It was late when Catherine left Tess's place, but she wasn't quite ready for home. Driving around aimlessly, she suddenly realized she was nearing the intersection where JT, and probably Vincent again now, occupied the abandoned mansion. She turned in the opposite direction. Veering off onto a quiet side street, she pulled into the parking lot of the cemetery where her Mother's empty grave sat. She knew Vanessa's body wasn't in the ground there but, like Vincent had said, it was still a marker – a place to go and talk to her. And she could do with some of that right now.

Finally arriving home in the early hours of the morning and dragging herself up the stairs, she wondered if Vincent was still in the unit. Memories of their night together came as a warm rushing flood through her senses. _Oh, God, Vincent!__ What are you thinking? Where are you right now?_

What had he done after she left? He was having trouble controlling his new self, that much was clear. She hated to think he was walking the streets somewhere in a rage of her own making. Not that she could do anything about it right now. She was _so_ tired.

The lights were off when she entered; a good sign. But as weary as she was, she still wasn't sure she could face a night alone in that bed. Not that getting much sleep at this point was even possible. Catherine opted for Heather's old room instead. It still had the basic furniture. She grabbed a throw off the back of the living room sofa as she passed it.

Her phone buzzed before her head hit the pillow. Two messages—one from Heather; one from Vincent from an hour ago. Well, at least he was alive and now she knew he had another burner. Or maybe it was a Muirfield standard issue? She deleted the message without listening to it. She was going to need a little more time than this.

Running through her other messages, she found another one from Heather from earlier in the evening. It was marked urgent. She looked regretfully at the bed. It wasn't going to happen. She sighed and hit her sister's number.

"Heath, hi, yeah. I'm sorry. I'm up early and just saw your message. What's so urgent? It's not Dad, is it?"

She exhaled with relief when Heather confirmed he was well. In fact, he'd been asking for her. Catherine had visited the hospital a few times when he'd been recovering from the hit and run, but when she couldn't get herself together after losing Vincent, Heather and Brooke had taken over the bulk of the Daddy-sitting. Now that he was out of the coma and home, she'd been to see him exactly twice, although he had yet to recall the actual incident or why he'd wanted to talk to her so urgently that day.

Catherine listened patiently to her sister's groggy explanation of why she had to see her in person right away, and suggested the coffee shop half way in between their two apartments.

Sans makeup and her normal confident air, Heather was for once stone cold sober. Her sister had ordered for her. Catherine gave her a quick kiss on the head as she approached and took the seat opposite her. "We'll have to make this quick. I've got just over an hour before I need to show my face in the precinct."

Heather's eyes looked distressed at that and flickered everywhere but at her. "Okay. Okay, then. Catherine, don't be upset, but I have something to tell you that I don't really understand myself, but I didn't want you to find out from someone else first."

Catherine resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Just what she needed, more drama. "Heath. Just spill it. Believe me, after the night I've just had, I think I can take just about anything." She took a long sip of her rapidly cooling coffee. It was going to have to get her through the day.

"Catherine, I think Dad is not your biological father."

Cat choked and nearly spit her coffee across the table. A little bit forced its way into her nose. As she fell into a fit of coughing, Heather jumped up and started wringing her hands before thinking to whack her on the back none too gently. When she got her breathing under control, Catherine waved her away.

"After what happened with Mom, I knew this would upset you," Heather stammered, sitting again. "That's why I didn't tell you in the hospital after the nurse first came and said there were no common identifiers in your blood, or something like that. I didn't understand what that meant at first. Then she explained that every biological child has these common factors in their blood with their birth parents, and that could mean only one thing."

Heather was babbling now. "Okay. Slow down. You found this out in the hospital . . . _when_?"

"Shortly after Dad was brought in, you gave blood for him."

"Yes."

"Well, the nurse came back shortly after you left."

"And you've been holding onto this _ever since_?" Catherine was beginning to feel at any moment she might just beast out herself! Maybe this feeling was what Vincent experienced. _No. Don't go there_. When Heather just blinked at her, she said, "You didn't think it important enough to tell me right away?"

"See. I knew you'd be angry, Cat, like you are right now. And you were having a really hard time dealing with what happened to Dad, so I didn't know what to do. You weren't around and Dad was still in a coma at the time, so it's not like I could ask _him_ about it!"

Catherine took a beat and closed her eyes. "But your blood was a match?"

"Yes."

"Just not mine."

"Catherine, I'm sure there is a logical explanation—"

"Of course. Our mother was unfaithful—" she bit out.

"Maybe it wasn't like that! I mean, you were born not long after they got married."

She'd always thought it romantic that they'd had to hurry to marry before her birth. Romantic as hell.

"Maybe Dad knew Mom was pregnant but the father of her child—you—had died tragically—"

At that, Catherine stood up. "Okay. I can't do this right now." Her head was literally pounding like a rock band. "I'm not . . . I'm not mad at you, Heather. I'm just frustrated. Every time I think I know someone, it turns out I don't really know them at all. Now I don't even know who _I_ am anymore!" A tightness in her chest was making it difficult to breathe. Time to go.

In one last desperate attempt at reason, Heather grabbed her sister's hands. "Cat. Dad raised us both. He raised you since you were a baby. He is your father for all intents and purposes."

_Except for the truth._ Nothing was simple anymore! Was that what 'Thomas' had wanted to tell her the day he was hit? The thought suddenly struck her with alarm. Her mother had worked for Muirfield. Could it be possible there was a connection to her real father, as well?

She left Heather with some cash for the bill and ran all the way to her car. Too much, too fast.

Plunging herself into their latest case at the precinct with more bravado than interest, she tried to ignore Tess's questioning looks. By the end of the day, Tess had had enough. She dragged Catherine into a conference room.

"Okay, what gives? Because you were like a bull dog on a short leash today—calling Bartelli out on that procedural error, complaining about the coffee cup shortage. Even _I'm_ afraid of you. What's going on? Did you see Vincent again last night?"

"I want to explain, Tess, but I'm not sure I can. After I left your place last night, I drove around for a while. Went to the cemetery." Cat suddenly realized she hadn't told Tess about her Mom not being in the grave. Man, her head ached. Too many Red Bulls were taking their toll. "When I got home, I had a message from Heather. She . . . she said she needed to meet with me right away—there was something important she had to tell me."

"All right, so what did she have to say?"

"Tess, the hospital said my blood didn't match my father's."

When Tess only frowned, she cried, "I'm not his biological daughter!"

This time Tess cringed and sat down heavily across from her. "Oh."

"Just 'oh'? First my mother lied to me, now my father. Tess, you realize this makes my _entire life_ a lie!"

Tess let out a breath. "I guess since we're doing confessions, I have something to tell you myself."

"Not you, too? What? Do I have 'too fragile for the truth' written all over my face or something? What's left?"

"Okay, it concerns your dad, too. In a way."

Catherine gritted her teeth together. "My dad, as in Thomas Chandler, or the 'other' guy?"

Tess leaned in. "Okay, remember when you gave me your dad's iPad to see if we could get anything off of it?"

Catherine sat up straighter. "Yes. You said it was broken beyond repair."

"That may have been a teensy bit untruthful on my part." When Catherine stood up at that, Tess put her hands out. "Okay, you were dealing with a lot of stuff, not the least of which was Vincent's kidnapping. I didn't really know what I was looking at, and still don't, but there was an email open on it with our new boss's picture."

Cat frowned. "What was the email about?"

"That's the sketchy part. It just said 'arrived back in the country yesterday' and some photo of our new boss, who is some kind of government operative."

"Reynolds?" Cat asked, astonished. The poor man didn't look or act like any kind of international anything.

"Yeah. Next thing I know, he's taking over the precinct in Joe's place. None of it made sense to me; that's why I didn't tell you. I'm sorry."

Catherine rubbed her eyes. "My Dad had a picture of our new boss in his email. This just gets stranger and stranger." She stood. "Okay. I'm going home, hopefully to sleep for the next several days. When I wake up, I'll think about this some more. Not until then."

But think about it she did. As she trudged up the stairs to her apartment again, the tears started falling. They wouldn't stop. By the time she reached the landing for her floor, she almost didn't see Vincent waiting at the end of the hall by the window. His hair was ruffled and unkempt. He looked as worn out as she felt.

"I meant to give you some space, but—"

A thought dawned on her and she stopped in her tracks. "Did _you_ know?"

"Did I know . . . what?"

She took one step toward him. "Did you know that_ Thomas Chandler wasn't my real father?_"

Surprise had him opening his mouth, only to slam it shut again.

_Hoist by his own petard_. His face said everything.

She charged him.

Before Vincent could react, Catherine landed one hell of a punch to the underside of his right jaw. His head snapped to the side in shock. He could feel his eyes begin to burn. But she wasn't finished. Next, she pummeled his chest, an easier target with her height, and surprisingly strong for such a tiny mite.

After she got in another few good hits, all deserved by his account, he realized she was as exhausted as he felt. He was going to have to stop her before she hurt herself or had the neighbors calling 9-1-1.

Hearing movement in the unit across from her, he suddenly wrapped her in his arms until she was pinned against his chest. The contact electrified him. Shattered and confused by her broken rantings, he then did the only thing his brain could process: he silenced her with his mouth and rammed his shoulder into number 513, breaking the lock and catapulting them inside her apartment.

They banged into the entry table once again scattering the knick-knacks, and a small picture fell off the wall. Neither one noticed. Catherine was fighting him at the same time as clawing him closer. He tasted her tears. She was still crying, but her tongue was responding to his. By slow degrees her anger melted into something inherently more dangerous—desire. He was right there with her.

Swinging her up into his arms, he blindly carried her to her bedroom, his mouth still glued to hers.

After making love to her numerous times, Vincent woke while it was still night. Catherine was still and warm and spread languorously across his chest like a beautiful angel. He eased her away but she was so exhausted he doubted she'd awaken before noon. The last time he had loved her, she'd been more asleep than awake, but he hadn't been able to stop himself.

He swallowed. She likely wouldn't welcome seeing his face when she roused. Kneeling over her slumbering form, he lightly placed his forehead against hers, breathing her air. Then he kissed her, little soft kisses all over her face—her cute, button nose, her eyelids, her brow—and murmured his love words.

He couldn't continue without climbing back into bed, which he was resolved not to do, so after a few long minutes, he regretfully leaned back, pulled a sheet of paper from her desk-side notepad, scratched a few inadequate words on it, and left.

**Chapter 5**

Catherine awoke to the sticky heat of the sun pouring in the window. She glanced at the time and sat up, scanning the room. No sounds but the constant din of traffic five flights below. Vincent wasn't in the apartment.

She pushed her still sleep-heavy body out of bed and into the bathroom, noting as she did how every muscle seemed to protest. After taking one of the longest showers her eco-friendly conscience had ever let her take, and sparing one tiny regret for washing every trace of him away, she finally emerged and set about getting dressed and finding something to eat.

A small stack of mail called out to her from the end of the counter. There were probably bills to pay. The world didn't stop spinning just because her life was a mess. She thumbed through the pile stopping only at the one personal envelope out of the batch. She smiled. Her college roomie, Phoebe Marsh, faithfully wrote to her regularly, no matter how seldom she took the time to respond.

The letter was full of her typically newsy but quick-witted banter and included a recent photo of her, her handsome but starting-to-gray-around-the-edges-now husband, and her two middle grade children, along with her always pointed reminder that Catherine was welcome to come and visit them anytime.

Catherine bit her lip. Phoebe had been that one friend over time she felt really understood her. When her husband, Eric's, job had moved them two hours away, she knew they'd always remain friends, but visiting wasn't going to be easy. She glanced at the phone number scrawled under her friend's name. What a surprise Phoebe would get if she actually picked up the phone and dialed her.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she punched the number into her cell.

"Phoebe? It's . . . it's Catherine. Hey, yeah. I just got your note and I decided to call. Umm. I just happen to be heading up to your area this afternoon, and I thought maybe by chance you'd be home, and I—" Catherine cringed a little at the white lie but Phoebe was screaming her excitement so loudly into the receiver that she forgave herself for that.

After hanging up, she found the courage, finally, to open the note Vincent had left on the night stand. His words brought fresh tears. Biting her lip, she then pressed the call-back number for him and asked him to meet her at the bridge in the park along her regular jogging route.

He approached her warily. She could hardly blame him. When he got to within three feet, he stopped, hands still tucked in his pockets.

"I'm leaving town for a day or two, I'm not sure exactly," she got right to the point. "I just . . . thought you should know." _So you wouldn't worry about me._

"Because of me?"

The anguish in his rough voice almost brought the tears up again. She looked away from his face, trying to get it under control, then looked back. "No. I need to do this for me, and with you back and all the changes, plus the whole 'dad' issue, I just feel a little . . . lost? I have some things to think through. And . . . I can't seem to think very clearly with you nearby right now." That said, she turned to go, but had an afterthought and swung back around.

"And don't ever do that to me again."

His mouth fell open. "Love you?"

"Try to manipulate me with your body."

Embarrassment flooded him. He tried tamping it down. He hadn't intended that, but it was true, nevertheless. But Catherine's voice had an edge he thought he knew the real reason for. "If this is about Teague—"

"It's not about her, or even about you. I just need time to get my head straight."

"Catherine, don't do this. Don't walk away. We need to talk. There are things I need to tell you – things about me we've never discussed since I came back."

"I know they continued their experiments on you. You're different in certain ways. It doesn't matter to me, Vincent. It never has."

"I just don't want you to leave this way—with things between us like they are. You-you turn around and I'm dead. I'm gone. Because . . ." He shook his head. "I can't breathe without you."

The tiny pin pricks of pain behind her eyes started the flow again. "Oh, Vincent. Don't do this to me."

"I'm not trying to do anything to you. I'm just . . . trying to survive. And truth is, I don't know who I am anymore. You're the only thing that makes sense in my life. There is no _me _without you."

"You're wrong. And if you think I can help you figure out—"

"I'm not asking you to."

"—who you are, I can't because I don't know who_ I_ am anymore, either! Everything is different. _No one_ is who I thought they were."

"Can't we figure this out together? You called us partners once."

_Yeah, and now you have a new partner_. She shook her head. "Two broken pieces can't make a whole."

At his stricken look, she softened. "I'm not . . . walking away, okay? I'm just taking a breather—to regroup. For a little while. I need space to think. And with you so close, I can't think of anything but you. You muddle my brain. One touch and I forget everything else. I'll let you know as soon as I get back."

With that, she turned and walked away, refusing to let herself look back. Within the hour, she found herself on the road.

Taking the express way north, she made her way out of the city and into the calm hills of the country. Phoebe greeted her in the drive with open arms.

"She's been waiting at the end of the drive for the better part of the last hour. Hey, Catherine. Good to see you." Eric, a familiar and dear face from the past, hugged her in greeting after her friend finally released her. Their two children, Summer and Jack, having just arrived home from school, came out of the house to say hello, as well.

Catherine took it all in stride. Part of what she needed was distraction, and this warm family had plenty of that. Only after dinner did she get a few moments alone in the guest room, but Phoebe was having none of that. She curled up on the end of the bed and waited.

"I hope you'll be comfortable in here. I haven't slept on this mattress in years. Not since I was bulbously pregnant with Jack and needed to give Eric some time to sleep."

Catherine grinned and tried to imagine her petite friend large in any way. She'd missed a lot over the years. "I'm sure it will be fine. Thanks so much for letting me crash here tonight."

"Are you kidding me? I haven't had so much 'grown-up' conversation in months. I'm so glad you came. You look as beautiful as ever, by the way, but you're . . . I don't want to say unhappy, but is something wrong, Cathy?"

Catherine started at the nickname. She hadn't been called 'Cathy' in eons. "You always could read me better than anyone, Phoeb."

"Something tells me you aren't here just to visit. What's going on with you? Is it a guy? It is! Tell me all about him."

"Yes, that's part of it. I don't know, Phoeb, when did life stop being simple? I have never been more in love with anyone in my life, but—"

"Wow. But?"

"But sometimes I find myself so insanely focused on him, I forget who I am, if that makes any sense."

"It makes perfect sense." Phoebe's eyes softened. "What's his name? Have I ever met him?"

"His name is Vincent, and no, you've never met him," _and probably never will_, she thought but didn't say.

"So you're breaking up? What?"

That gave Catherine pause. She knew Vincent felt insecure about their relationship when she left, but there was never going to be a time, that she could imagine, that she would ever truly leave him. "It's complicated."

"When is it not? Okay, so I have eight straight hours to devote to you tonight. Spill. We won't be interrupted."

The temptation was too great to pass up. "Promise you will just accept what I say and not make any judgments?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Just crossing your heart will suffice, I think." She laughed. It felt good.

"Why don't you start with how you two met?"

Easier said than done. As carefully as she could, Catherine gave her friend a sketchy account of their relationship to date.

"He saved your life?"

"On more than one occasion, actually."

"Wow. So he's in the force, like you?"

"No. I wish I could explain, but there are reasons I can't go into specifics."

"I got it. If you told me the truth, you'd have to kill me. Not a problem. Continue on."

Closer to the truth than she knew.

"You two eventually fell in love . . ."

"Oh, my God, Phoebe. I have never been so in love. He's the one, you know? No one knows me like he does. We just have this . . . connection that I'll never have with anyone else."

"So, what's the problem?"

Where to start? There were problems too numerous to count. "It's never been easy for us to be together. I can't say more than that, but we'd been separated for a few months recently. He just . . . disappeared. Now he's back and things aren't the same."

"How so?"

"Well, he lied to me for one. He . . . withheld something from me." Now that she'd said it, she realized Vincent hadn't been the only one. Why was she holding him to a higher standard?

"You know, Cath—and I tell you this from experience—sometimes we lie or withhold things to protect the ones we love. There's often a fine line between what's best for them and being totally honest. And I can't tell you which is right. I've made my own mistakes in that area. Not on purpose, but out of love, and because I'm human. If Vincent loves you as much as you obviously love him, isn't there room for forgiveness?"

_Forgiveness_. That was a concept that might just benefit them all. She studied Phoebe. "It's more than that. You knew my folks."

"I adored them. Your mom used to joke that I was her adopted daughter, remember? I loved them both."

"And you're close to your folks. How would you feel if you found out that your parents, or one of them, wasn't your parent at all?"

Phoebe frowned.

"My dad," Catherine answered the unasked question. "I just learned through a blood sample that he isn't really by birth father."

Phoebe absorbed that for a minute. "Does it matter?" she finally asked. "Does it really matter, Cath, because lots of people aren't raised by their biological parents."

"It's just that in the last year I also learned some things I never knew about my mom, too. I guess it just makes me feel that I didn't know them at all. That I don't know now who _I_ am now."

The tears in her friend's eyes brought Phoebe up off the edge of the bed to put her arms around her. "You're the same beautiful, sensitive girlfriend I've always known—a strong, independent woman who deserves a rare and wonderful love. What happened with your parents is done. It can't be changed. But now you have this amazing love relationship with Vincent that sounds pretty special. I'd hold onto that, if I were you. Forget the small things. Work through the others. If he loves you like it sounds like he does, you can overcome anything together."

_Her own words back to her._ The sudden feeling that she'd left something very important undone had panic rising up in her chest. "Oh, Phoebe."

"He'll stick with you all the way, if he's worth his salt."

"He's worth everything."

"Then good." Phoebe gave her a perfunctory hug and patted her on the back. "Then get yourself a good night's sleep and get back to him tomorrow. And someday, Catherine, if it all works out, I'd really like to meet the guy who captured the heart of my best friend, because he's got to be one in a million to deserve you."

Her dreams weren't sweet, they were filled with dark and mystery and heart-breaking longing. She left a note on the bed expressing her regret at having to leave without saying good-bye, and left with the first rays of dawn.

Vincent ruthlessly jerked off the mask of the assailant he'd just killed and a wealth of long dark hair spilled out onto the pavement. A _woman_. And one with hair that reminded him far too much of another woman he'd left just that morning.

Teague had just started to get up and walk over to see what was so fascinating to her partner when a flash of gun metal caught her eye in the instant she turned. Another masked figure, this one with an oozy, came around the corner into the building. A fraction of a second before she saw the flash of gun powder from the barrel aimed directly at Vincent, she threw herself in front of him, taking the full brunt of a round of bullets directly in the chest.

The assailant hadn't moved a foot further into the warehouse before he was cut down by Vincent in a fit of pure rage. If he hadn't been so distracted, he would have sensed the man's approach before he'd come in. He _should _have! Making sure the man was good and dead, he swept the area searching for any other life. Beside those in his own thundering chest, the only faint heartbeats in the warehouse came from Cameryn. He rushed back to her.

"Teague!" She was riddled with gunshot but still conscious and moving. "Lie still. I can take care of this."

"Bullets . . . hurt."

Vincent smiled, despite himself. Was there no end to her cockiness? Yes, indeed they did, though most people didn't live long enough to notice just how badly. Having dug a bullet out of his own gut earlier in the year, he was instantly reminded of just how much. But Teague wasn't 'most people,' and she could survive this, just like he had, if he saw to her quickly enough.

He scrambled to rip away his belt pack with the medical supplies. They'd needed them on more than one occasion. Being a doctor, part of his role was to take care of emergencies when they were in the field. He calmly removed his knife and wound care kit. Cameryn was having none of it. As he attempted to hold her still with his body so his hands could maneuver, she started pushing him away with surprising force.

"Teague, you may be made of special stuff, but I've still got to get the metal out!"

"_No_!" The command was so fierce, he stopped and looked at her.

"Please, Keller, let me die."

"You don't have to die! That's what I'm saying. I know you're in pain and you probably think that would be better, but you'll get through this."

"For what? This isn't life. I ended my life years ago."

His eyes flew to her face, a question in them. He knew very little about her story, how she came to be another experiment of Muirfield, and he cringed, ashamed. He should have asked before now. He pressed his palm over her in an effort to stop the bleeding even as she protested with everything she had. "Damn it! Don't give up. I need your help!"

"I stopped living a long time ago. I'm more a machine now than I am a woman. I'm not even real. Let me go. Please. I'm begging you."

"You're real to me! Teague," he held her face with his free hand. "Don't tell me you're not real! You're the only other person in the world like me, and _I need you_."

She saw the moisture in his eyes and smiled softly. "I don't know about that, but—tears, Keller? Really? Don't you understand? I'm like the rabbit."

"_What_?"

"I'm the rabbit; you're the skin horse. Didn't you ever read the classics?"

He didn't know what the classics had to do with anything right then, but he had a vague memory of sitting on his mother's lap with his two older brothers on the floor beside them and a storybook open about a Velveteen rabbit.

He tucked an arm under his comrade and gently lifted her head as she struggled to speak with the blood starting to pool in her chest.

"Teague—" he said urgently.

" '_Real isn't how you are made_,' " she quoted, instead, pain laced in every word. " '_It's a thing that happens to you when you're loved. By the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off_, '" she threaded weak fingers through the hair at his brow, so close to her face. " . . . '_your eyes drop out, and you get loose in the joints and very shabby_.' " Incredibly, she giggled at that image of him, so _not _applicable yet. " '_But those things don't matter, because . . . because once you are Real, you can't be ugly_.' " Her knuckles flickered briefly over his scar, then she coughed with the effort it took to breathe. When she got it under control, she looked up into his eyes, his lashes wet now with tears.

"You shouldn't have thrown yourself in front of me."

"Of course I should have. Because you're real. Let me die for something important, will you? Not this," her eyes skittered around the warehouse, the carnage of greed. "We all have to die some day. And since I do, I want to have died for love, not war."

"Love?"

"For you, Keller. Because someone out there loves you very much, and that makes you real." She let out a painful grunt and it terrified him.

"Teague, _please_—" he begged when her eyes shut.

She rallied herself a moment longer. "You know," she panted, the life slowly draining from her body. "I always wanted a brother. In my dreams, he would have been just like you."

With that, she reached up with a last burst of energy and pressed her lips lightly to his, then sagged back to the earth, dead.

Vincent sobbed until he ran dry and then disgorged the entire contents of his stomach to boot.

**Chapter 6**

Catherine returned later the next day and texted him to meet her near the bridge again. Neutral ground.

"Are you okay?" He sincerely doubted he could handle much more. But she was back. And so soon. She didn't quite smile, but that intriguing cheek dimple winked at him. A good sign.

"I'm okay."

"Catherine, I didn't mean to manipulate you."

"I know." She took a deep breath. "But you withheld something from me you thought would hurt me. That isn't lying, but . . . your first instinct is always to protect me. I get it. And I love you for it, as misguided as it was. Vincent, no matter what happens, no matter what they've done to you or what will happen in the future, or how much we disagree and fight—I'm not going to stop loving you." _You are my life, too._

Her words went a long way toward mending his heart, but she wasn't finished. "And I . . . ask your forgiveness. I promise to never walk away from you again."

"I promise never to violate your trust again. I'll tell you everything I'm doing for Muirfield. I won't cut you out of the loop ever again, I swear."

"And I'm okay with Cameryn being your partner. In fact, I was going to suggest that you invite her for dinner sometime soon. I think I'd like to get to know her. And I'm sure she could use another friend."

Pain like a fist to his gut had him reeling. If she only could have, maybe Teague would still be alive today. He swallowed painfully. "God, I love you. More than my life."

"And I love you. But in order to love someone properly, I have to love myself. And I have to _know _myself. With all that's happened, I just needed time to figure out who I really am."

"I . . . think I can help with that."

She frowned, doubtfully.

"I have someplace I'd like to take you."

"Some place romantic?"

"Not exactly. You'll just have to trust me. It's important." Pulling his right hand from the pocket he usually hid it in, he held it out to her.

Catherine was stunned when they approached a freshly dug gravesite. It wasn't in a cemetery, but just off the road at a small overlook. He hadn't said a word in explanation about where he was taking her, but this certainly wasn't what she would have guessed. He walked her over to it.

"Cameryn Teague," he said, seeing her question. "It happened yesterday, while you were gone."

"Oh, Vincent! I am _so _sorry."

He nodded. "You would have liked her."

"How did she die?"

"It was a drug bust—you'll probably hear about it when you return to work in the morning. She . . . saved my life."

"Oh, my God!"

He pulled her to him, both of them knowing what that felt like. "It's okay. I'm fine. And now she's at peace."

"Thank you for bringing me here. Next time we'll bring flowers."

He nodded and started to lead her away. She looked up at him, asking with her eyes why he was ready to leave so soon.

"We have one more stop."

Another hour north, and nearly in the direction she'd just come from that morning, he surprised her again by turning into a lane of neatly manicured grounds. A green lawn edged a long gravel drive to what appeared to be a rambling farm house. She twisted to look at him. His face was sober.

Pulling up in front of the house, he helped her out and led her up to the door. He knocked with one hand and pressed her slightly behind him with the other.

An older man opened the door, she could tell by his voice. It sounded vaguely familiar, but Vincent blocked the view of him with his body.

"Keller? What the hell do you think you're doing? You were told never to come here. If this is about Teague—"

"Sometimes rules have to be broken," he eyed the man dangerously, daring him to argue. "Invite us in, Michael."

" 'Us?' "

Vincent drew Catherine out of the shadow behind him.

"_Boss_?" she gasped, clearly astonished.

Reynolds backed into the house, letting them pass. "I never wanted this," he murmured coldly to Vincent, as he did.

"Thing is, truth hurts. But sometimes," he cupped Catherine's cheek with his palm and looked into her eyes, "it's the first step toward healing."

Sliding an arm around her for support, "Catherine," he said, "I'd like you to meet your real father."

*End*


End file.
